


A Moral Shipping

by Manko



Category: A Zed & Two Noughts (1985), Original Work
Genre: Control, Exhibitionism, F/F, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Masochism, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, One Shot, Other, Restraints, Transformation, Work In Progress, Zoophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manko/pseuds/Manko
Summary: A behind-the-scenes rumination on life, man's mistreatment of animals, and the inevitable birth, death, and decay of morality.





	A Moral Shipping

** Transcribed from _Interviews With A Pen-Pusher_ **

We are often asked how we select our animals, how we choose which protospecies they will become, and how can someone apply to work here.

As with every other research and development facility, we are subject to half a mile of red tape. What we can say is: carefully.

** Transcribed from _Interviews With A Shifter_ **

Our animals arrive in a standard shipping crate. At their point of origin, they're placed in an induced coma, stripped, washed, air dried, shrink-wrapped, and placed in large foam blocks. With express shipping, they usually arrive the following day. After a few frantic phone calls, we find out where they've been shipped to, and tell the _censored_ what we think of them, and arrange for the _censored_ to ship them here, and why couldn't the _censored_ do this in the first place.

Two days, and more _censored_ phone calls, later they usually arrive here.

Our first task is to make sure the crates are the right way up. Y'know, the _censored_ big arrow on the side of the crate. After three or four days, they stink. So, we suit up, find a jet wash that works, and hose them down. The couriers, not the animals.

The animals, we take to autopsy. The stainless steel tables are ideal for sluicing them down, and doing external inspections. Most of the time, it isn't pretty. Decaying flesh, lumps of who knows what left lying around, and don't drink the coffee. It isn't. But, do try the cheese. That's the occasionally yellow stuff with mold growing all over it. Sometimes.

The animals are identified, measured, and cataloged. How they know how far they can push a dipstick up their tiny _censored_ is anyone's guess. _censored_ bastards.

Our last task is to hang the animals out to dry. Upside down. Just don't ask where they stick the intravenous drip. No one gives a shit. And the animals certainly can't. Not if they leave the dipstick in. Most of them have had cages stuffed in their _censored_. Rectum good and proper, that did.

** Transcribed from _Interviews With A Shifter_ **

So, the manifest says we should have six animals from Europe. That was a country in England, until they told the French and Germans to _censored_. Turns out, we got seven. The seventh, an ugly runt, the chief slicer and dicer said was a _Jane Doe_ . But, since we don't have deers, antelopes, goats, and anyone who thinks we keep kangaroos is having a giraffe, we took her to the hupig sty.

Who said they couldn't get any uglier? It's like measuring IQs. Just because we're shifters doesn't mean we're thick as pigshit. Our average IQ is 100, same as the snooty bastards in _censored_.

And why is it that the most anally retentive have the worst verbal diarrhea? We didn't go to school for nothing; we didn't go because it was a waste of time. Just because we shift shit doesn't mean we should put up with it. But we do. Then we put down with it. Where they least expect it. And they wonder why the curry is so hot and spicy.

Talking of spicy, the hucows are easy to prep. Two miniatures. Pretty little things, too. But the cages stretch them wider than the Brooklyn tunnel.

And _they_ don't shave them, either. Nor do we. We use a sugar paste. Sugar, lemon, and water. All natural. And honey for the more delicate areas. The older one's carpet didn't match the curtains. Although it was more of a landing strip. And they say O'Hare was busy. And I swear the caterpillar crawling across her wrinkled top lip moved.

I've plucked better looking turkeys than the younger one's. And I've plucked a few in my time. But it was tight. Was. Not as tight as her ass, that's why we always keep an oil can handy. A little lubrication eases her prosthetic tail in. It may be where the sun don't shine, but that's why we have flashlights. People just don't get the aesthetic. If they can pick them up like a six pack, they're happy.

It's a messy job, but someone's got to do it. We don't take any pleasure from spreading the runny paste over their soft bodies. We do take a lot of photos. So we have a record of their progress, and for publishing the occasional instruction manual. The intertubes deserve nothing but the highest resolution, high definition, professional product.

For a hucow, the old one has small tits. Her butt sags, but her stomach isn't that fat, and her legs have a couple of weeks hair on them. We paste it all, front and back, top to bottom. And their heads.

After that, we go for a smoke, come back and scrape it all off. Never, _ever_, let the paste harden and tear it off. The paste is supposed to _dissolves_ the hair. Hosed down, we wheel them outside to air dry. Still upside down. It's relaxing to watch them swing by their ankles, sagging tits and all, while we have a coffee. All of them lined up in a row. I just do the hucows; it's a specialist job. But we all say that. Fitting hooves and braces isn't my thing. Oiling a hucow up and down, that is.

Olive oil is what we use. Extra virgin, because they'll never be born again, but it's good for the skin. Taking our time massaging it in. All over. Pussy and asshole, too. Because, y'know, lubrication eases. And especially the tits. A tit in each hand is worth more than one in their bush any day. Shaved or not. And a hucow needs its nipples sucking out. Not the old-fashioned way. But their tits are soft enough to wrap two fingers around their nipples and milk the traditional way. If they had any milk in them.

Two fingers is about the size their teats need to be. Not like the three on each hand we used to use to open up their pussies. And not a latex glove in sight. Hygiene has improved. As long as we remember not to spit on our fingers, gloves or not. And not lick them clean after.

Two fingers, and a thumb to flick their nipples erect. Not for fun. An experienced flickr doesn't just take good photos. Half an hour later we're done. And you would be, too. But we know their tits like the, well, fingers on our hands. Whatever cups they used to be stuffed in are nothing like the suction cups we use.

And while they're upside down, it's easier to fit the cosmetic shit: metal hooks to widen their mouths; retractors to pull and harden their lips; clamps and mild acids to stretch and soften the cartilage in their ears. Cosmetic, because who's going to look at a hucow. Me, I'm a vegetarian; steak is the last thing on my mind. A nice latte, though...

After lunch, we let them down.

The milking shed isn't much to look at. Stainless steel and completely antisecptic. I wasn't impressed with it, either, but it is easy to sluice out. Much like the hucows, really. And sepsis isn't an issue.

The milking frame is utilitarian, too. From their hanging position, we can secure their shoulders, lower and secure their hips, pin their arms behind their backs, and finally spread and secure their ankles. Bent over for easy access to their tits and ass. Any old firm bit of rubber, as long as it's wide enough and ribbed, will work as a dildo. Or, for a bit of variety, we'll give them a toilet brush. These are hucows, not cheap hookers in video chat rooms on the intertubes; our toilet brushes are new.

Before they wake, all we have to do is secure their heads. Who knows the last thing they'll remember. But the first thing they'll see is a shallow bowl of feed. Which is pretty much all they'll see for as long as they're here.

They'll learn what it means to have control taken away from them. They'll wonder where they are, what's happening to them. They'll struggle against the restraints, try to kick and yell, until they realize just how stuck they are. Then, they'll struggle all over again when they feel their pussies and assholes being stretched, in their vernacular, to buggery.

They'll wonder why. And how. Mostly how. How their pussies can be stretched so wide. And how deep. How they'd never known. How much of a void the dildo leaves behind. And if they thought they were stuck before, how their bodies want to be stuck again. And again. And how didn't they notice the pressure on their tits. Only because it's gone. Until their nipples are sucked roughly and clamped down on. Again and again. But for how long.

And how did it come to this. Because they just have. Yet, the sucking on their tits doesn't stop, and the dildoes keep pounding their pussies. How much longer will they have to suffer.

It's doubtful they gave any consideration to how many had suffered because of them. They moan and whine because they haven't learned to moo. But they'll get used to their tits being sucked into vacuum cups while their nipple ends get stretched into teats. And if they don't enjoy being milked, the mechanical dildoes will keep them happy.

Their lows will be our highs.

But nothing like their first orgasms. If they knew they could; or for how long. And how their assholes were neglected, because how could any sane person be so cruel. How their bodies betray them. How much more they can take, and how do they make it stop.

Their minds and bodies give up before they wonder how they can survive. Or if. Until their nipples are clamped and sucked again. And again. And again. How much time has passed. How can their pussies and assholes be filled at the same time. And how did they piss themselves

Grief comes in many forms. They've both inflicted enough of it in their time to know. It isn't our rôle to ease them through it. If their minds weren't strong enough, they wouldn't be here. Unlike them, we are not unjust. Neither are we here to deliver justice.

We are simple shifters, and shift the blame and make excuses much as they did. We have our own moments to reflect. Upon life's inequalities and our own inadequacies. Just because we never had an education doesn't mean we don't understand. We know all about suffering, but we know compassion, too, They never hurt us, so we don't hurt them. We just give them time to reflect. Right now, their lives flash before their eyes too quickly for them to see, too painfully for them to understand. Until push comes to shove. Then they will. Because, just like they did, we shovel a lot of shit, too.

But our shift is over, and it's time for us to shove off. We hose them down, and ourselves, too. It's a shitty job, but someone's got to do it. No point getting our clothes dirty. And if they could see us, what's left of our humanity, perhaps they could begin to understand. But that's our lesson, not theirs.

** Transcribed from _Shifter Surveillance Recordings_ **

Pig's home is a simple place. Pig is a stupid pig. I have many pigs. Pigs have names, but I call them all pig. Pig is easy for pigs to remember, and for me. Pig is small and ugly. I call it pig. I don't know why it doesn't like it. Pig doesn't talk much. Or at all. Shifters put hooks in the corners of pig's mouth to pull it wider. Shifters put clamps on the pig's tongue to stretch it out. Shifters put rings in pig's nose to make it uglier.

Pig's hands are bound. Pig's legs are bound. Pig doesn't have a pussy. Pig is not a cat. Cat's have kittens. Pigs have holes. Food goes in, shit comes out. Assholes. Not donkeys. The shit.

Pig is still ugly. Sometimes I wonder. Most times I forget. I never remember what I forget. I wonder some more. Pig is like that. It looks at me. Pig isn't clever at all. If I can't remember what I forget, how can I remember what pig forgot.

But I remember to feed pig. Sometimes. Sometimes pig's bucket is full. Sometimes pig's bucket is empty. Shifters say pig's bucket has pig's name on it. But I can spell pig. Not really. But I can count: one, two, many, lots. There are many letters on the bucket, not just a _pi_ and a _g_. Really, shifters are just full of shit.

But I'm not stupid.

My bucket has lots and lots of letters on it. That's how I know it's my bucket. Unless I forget. But since I don't remember what I forget, I know it's my bucket because it has fruit in it. Unless the bucket's empty. Sometimes there is fruit in lots of buckets.

I like fruit. Pig likes fruit. I like pig. Pig doesn't like me. I think pig is lonely. Pig is not alone. I am lonely, too. Two is one and one. Pig and me. Pig and pig. But I am not pig.

Pig is ugly and stupid.

There is lots and lots and lots of food to eat. Noises come out of pig's mouth, but food doesn't go in it. Fruit does. I eat lots and lots. Lots of leaves and lots of nuts. Leaves is more than one leaf. There is lots of leaves on the ground. And nuts. All around us. Pigs eat nuts but pig doesn't.

Pig shits on the ground. Sometimes. Sometimes pig shits in the air. Pigs don't mind pig's shit. But pig doesn't like fruit with pig's shit on it. Or pigs' shit. Pigs don't care. Shit is shit. Food is food. Whatever goes in, only shit comes out.

Sometimes pig is on the ground. Pig is not food. But pigs like pig. Pigs lick pig. Pig doesn't lick pigs. One day.

I am not shifter, but I still shift shit. I shit shit, too. Shifters think it's funny. But, really, shifters are just full of shit.

Pig will learn. One day. Today is one day. But not today. Tomorrow is one day, too. Two days is not enough. Lots and lots of days won't be enough. But there will be one day.

One day, I had a name. Shifters point at the buckets. Lots for pigs, one for me. My bucket. Shifters smile at me. Shifters are full of shit, but they like me. I don't know what a sow is, but I am old. Shifters point at my bucket. I am Spoiled Dead Rotten. My name means shifters care for me. Shifters are man. Shifters say to man, man is so full of shit.

I am ugly. Pig is not as ugly as me. Today is one day. One day is today. Today pig sits next to me. I am happy pig is not lonely.

Sometimes I wonder. Pig has two eyes and sees only one me. I have one eye and see only one pig. Perhaps shifters will take pig's eye so pig can count.

Sometimes I forget I don't remember because I know. One day I had long arms. One day I had long legs. One day I had hands and feet. One day I was shifter. Full of shit. When I am full of shit I shit on the ground. Shifters only eat shit. Shifter shit is called curry. Hot shit. Wholly shit. But still shit.

Shifters say I had hope and breasts and growths and tumors. One, two, many, lots. Shifters say I was pretty. Perhaps shifters will cut pig's head. Still, I like pig.

Today is one day. Today I am happy. Pig is not. Pig sees me. Shifters say truth is not pretty. Pig is not pretty. Truth is pig could be like me. Pig looks at me. I am happy to make pig happy.

Pig is quiet. I speak because shifters ask. Not one pig hears. Not pig. Today pig sleeps with me. Pig eats and licks and shits. Not in the air.

One day I will be happy. One day I won't care. One day I will forget. Today is one day. I am happy. I don't care. I know. I know I an happy. I am happy I don't care. I don't care I forget.

Is today one day?

I forget.

Pig is happy.


End file.
